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  "Sorry," she said. "He says, 'Please, don't be mad. Please. I'm very sorry. It wasn't my intent to deceive you.'"

  Max huffed. "You lied about who you are. That seems pretty intent on deception."

  "'I know, I know. It's not like that, though. You see, I couldn't tell you the truth, but I'm prepared to tell you everything now.'"

  "Because we've caught you."

  "'Just listen, please.'"

  Max looked to Drummond who signaled agreement. "Okay," Max said. "Let's hear it."

  "'Much of what I told you was true,'" Sandra went on translating. "'I did live during the Great Depression. My wife, Clara, and I, we did suffer hard. I lost my job; I couldn't get work. All of that is true. I wasn't an art forger, obviously — just a clerk. Filing papers, keeping records, all sorts of paperwork, that kind of thing.

  "'And ... I did buy a gun, and I did plan to kill myself. In fact, if you look up my name, you'll find my records indicate that I did commit suicide. Only I didn't.

  "'Back then, you see, back during the Depression, sometimes people were removed from their homes rather quickly. Sometimes there were robberies, and sometimes there were deaths. The point is that sometimes people who shouldn't have certain items, who couldn't dream of affording such things, found them falling into their possession.'"

  Impatient, Max gestured to the empty chair. "Is there a reason you find it so difficult to admit you had some stolen property? You're dead. The police can't get you now."

  "'I still have my name, my pride. But I see you don't care about those things. Fine. Through connections that don't matter to this case, I came to own a certain painting.'"

  "Just a wild guess, but was it called Morning in Red?'"

  "'No, but I'll get to that painting in a moment. The painting I had come across, well, I didn't know anything about art back then, but I was sure it was worth something. It wasn't by any artist I knew, it wasn't going to make me rich, but it was a beautiful painting and I thought to myself, there must be some way to make some money from this. That was a common thought back then — thought it about pretty much everything.

  "'I put out word about the painting in the few places I knew. Then along came Howard Corkille.'"

  Max didn't need Sullivan's nervous presentation to see where things went to next. After all, Corkille, the real Corkille, was an art forger. He, no doubt, recognized some worth in the painting and offered Jasper Sullivan a unique proposal. Corkille would make an identical painting, and they would sell it. Using Corkille's established connections, they would receive far more than Sullivan could acquire on his own, and splitting the profits even at an unfavorable 70/30 split would net Sullivan handsomely. Plus, Sullivan would retain the original painting.

  Thinking about the other interested parties in this case, Max said, "I'm guessing Corkille sold the painting to a member of the Hull family."

  "'William Hull.'"

  Drummond patted the empty space as if consoling. "He was a dangerous man. You're not the first to be hurt by him nor the last ... that's right, William Hull was responsible for turning me into a ghost, too."

  "Wait," Max said. "Hull killed you?"

  "You knew that."

  "Not you. Sullivan."

  Sandra continued to translate. "'Not Hull directly. He had a hired hand take care of it. You see, he found out about the painting. I never learned how Hull knew. Maybe he knew his art that well, maybe Corkille screwed up doing the forgery, or maybe — probably — Corkille betrayed me. After all, I never saw the painting again. Corkille disappeared, the painting disappeared, and only Hull remained. It doesn't matter now, though. Hull figured it out. I'm sure you can imagine how he reacted.

  "'I was frightened, and I wanted to protect Clara and my unborn child and, looking back, I was a bit of a coward. No, I was a lot of a coward. So, I did go to that tobacco field. I got drunk on cheap wine. And I did bring my gun. I planned to kill myself. I figured that would end Hull's interest in me and leave my family out of the matter.

  "'But I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. I sat in that field feeling the cold metal touching the skin on my head, and I kept picturing my dear Clara — how sad she would be when she found out what I had done. I saw how she would someday have to explain to my son what I had done. All I saw was pain. And I was afraid. I didn't know if there was an afterlife, but I figured if there was, I wouldn't be going anyplace good. And then I felt a hand cover mine. This hand that took hold of the gun, the one I told you saved me — the truth is that the hand belonged to Hull's man. He helped me pull the trigger.'"

  Max jotted a few points down. "So, you and Howard Corkille try to pass off a forgery on Hull and it gets you killed. This certainly fills in some gaps, but you said the painting wasn't Morning in Red. So why did you hire us to find that one? And why are you coming clean now?"

  "'I'm telling you all this because I did some checking of my own in the Other.'"

  Drummond said, "He means the ghost world."

  "I know what he means," Max said.

  "'I came to you because you're the only ghost detective around. Or researcher, if you prefer. But as things started moving, I thought I ought to know more about you folks. So, I asked around about Drummond. When I learned of his being cursed by Hull and all, then I knew I could trust you with the truth.

  "'As to the Morning in Red painting — I first heard of it about twenty years ago. Corkille caused my murder, and that's not something I can forgive. My wife spiraled into a sadness that claimed her. Once our son had reached fifteen, my Clara killed herself. My son, a boy I never met in life, became a violent and abusive man. Without his father to guide him, he turned to a criminal's life. So, you see, Corkille's damage to me went far beyond the theft of a painting. He destroyed my family. I spent many years looking for him in the Other. I wanted to hurt him, but he's always eluded me. And then a few decades ago, I heard he searched for this particular, odd painting.

  "'That's how I learned about it — I heard Corkille wanted it. He's been looking hard — hard enough that I found out about it. So, whatever it is, it's important to him. Enough to get too noisy about it. It must be worth quite a lot and so I want it.'"

  "You sent us to Melinda Corkille to get us started on the right track."

  "'Yes.'"

  Max walked the room with no destination. He just needed to move. He tapped his chin and licked his lips. "I'm confused. What do you want to do with this painting? You can't sell it. Even if I did it for you, it might not be worth all that much. Besides, money is worthless to you."

  "'It's enough to deny Corkille what he is desperate to get. I don't know why he wants it, but I want him to have to come to me to get it. It may seem petty, I know, but if your life had turned out like mine, you'd spend hundreds of years plotting such revenge.'"

  Drummond said, "Give the guy a break. As revenges go, this one is mild. I've seen enough blood-spattered walls to know that hatred can get real nasty."

  Something was wrong. Why was Drummond acting so nice? Max focused on Drummond but couldn't get a sign from him. "Fine," he said. "You have anything else for us?"

  "'I don't think so. If I think of anything, I'll let you know. And I'll be available. Don't worry."

  "We trust you," Drummond said. "You relax. We'll find that painting for you."

  Sandra looked up from the chair. "He's gone."

  "What's with you?" Max asked Drummond. "You're not really going for all that."

  Drummond slid into the client chair, propped his feet on the desk, and opened his arms like a conqueror. "Of course not. But you've got to learn how to be nice sometimes. This guy, if we came in bullying him, he would've seen us like another one of Hull's men. He said it himself — he's a coward. I just played nice while you were being all aggressive."

  "Are you saying we just played Good Cop/Bad Cop?"

  "You didn't know that's what we were doing?"

  Max turned away but he caught the amusement on Sandra's face. He tried not to get angry or
have any reaction to his embarrassment. Drummond saved him by clapping his hands together once and jumping into the air. "Okay. I think we need to pay a few visits."

  Sandra helped by following along with this get-back-to-work attitude. "What do you have in mind?"

  Though Max did not look at Drummond, he heard the hesitation, and it chilled his skin. "Old Jasper there had a few good nuggets to share," Drummond said. "The one that I keep hearing is that all of this is tied to Hull. In particular, to William Hull. Did you notice the way Jasper reacted when we were talking about how Hull had me cursed?"

  "What reaction?" Max said turning to Sandra.

  She said, "I couldn't tell you with him sitting right here, but he got very tense. If he wasn't already a pale ghost, I'd have said he turned white."

  Drummond slid behind Sandra and put both hands on her shoulders — not enough to cause pain but enough to make the contact known. "I think Hull might've done more to Jasper Sullivan than just kill him. He did it to me. Thanks again, by-the-way, to both of you for freeing me from that."

  "You can thank me by letting go of my wife," Max said.

  Drummond raised his hand up. "Sorry. Just friends."

  "Get to the final point or I'll have you re-cursed." Every second in this case filled him with unease as if he walked on fragile crates knowing any wrong step could smash them open, and he had no idea if they contained soft pillows or jagged knives.

  "My point is simply that if William Hull cursed Jasper, he would have used a witch — a particular witch whose daughter is continuing in the family tradition."

  "No," Max said, picturing jagged knives.

  "She's the one with the answers."

  "She tried to kill me."

  "She failed."

  "I am not going to see her and act all nice so I can get some information from her. I won't do it."

  Sandra grabbed the car keys. "I'll do it for you. Drummond'll come with me."

  Drummond perked up. "Spend the day with a pretty gal like you? No problem. Don't worry, Max. I'll be a gentleman."

  The two headed for the office door. Defeated, Max said, "Just hold on. Let me get my coat."

  Chapter 11

  The door had a lock now. That was the first difference they noticed standing at the office of Dr. Connor, optometrist and witch. The second was the quiet.

  Not absolute silence but a muted quiet strange for this area. Westgate Center Drive, with its numerous doctor's offices and outpatient facilities, ran somewhat parallel to Stratford Road — one of the busiest roads since it connected to Hanes Mall. Tons of restaurants and loads of shops, yet despite the steady number of passing cars and the occasional delivery truck, things remained quiet. Even the birds stopped chirping around Connor's office.

  Though he had survived their last meeting, Max could not avoid the horrible, gut-churning sensation thoughts of Dr. Connor brought upon him. She was not somebody to mess around with. Whatever information she might have for them, he knew it would come with a price.

  "Are you going in or not?" Drummond asked.

  Sandra took hold of Max's hand. "It'll be okay."

  "You don't know that," Max said, but he opened the door anyway. The darkness inside matched his fear — heavy and pressing. When they stepped inside, however, the mood lightened considerably. He had seen poverty before — desolation, dereliction, destruction, even blood and death. Until this moment, he never felt a sense of relief (and even a tinge of joy) at seeing such things.

  The witch's office lay in ruin. Not because some tornado of ruthless vandals had swept through but rather out of neglect. Dust covered the few bits of furniture that remained. The shades were drawn, letting the sun peek in at odd angles. Empty food containers littered the floor as did the blood-markings of a half-completed spell (at least, Max thought it looked half-completed). A picture lay smashed in the corner next to a hole in the wall at about the height of an aggravated kick. An empty bottle of Jack Daniel's leaned against a half-empty bottle.

  "Dr. Connor?" Sandra called.

  Somebody stirred in the back. Sandra called out again, and this time they heard coughing before a bent lady shuffled toward them. A year ago, Dr. Connor had been a vibrant, frightening woman — young, powerful, and eager to use both to her advantage. Max looked upon her now with pity — she appeared to have aged twenty years or more in just one year.

  When she saw her visitors, her face flushed with fierce venom. "You! Demon! You dare come back here. Just because you hurt me once, you think you can finish me off? I'll whip you to the ground," she said, raising her hands as if to hurl herself upon Max. She froze in that awkward position, her eyes searching, her ears perked. Then she let out a sinister smile. "You brought the ghost with you. Good. I'll smite all three of you. Send you to Hell where you belong."

  All of the past few days burned through any sense of calm or fear Max had possessed. Before he could think about it, he let loose the fire. "You piece of trash," he said, showing no restraint. "You're the one that deserves Hellfire. You threaten my wife and my friend? You threaten me?"

  "You destroyed my office. You broke my spell."

  "That would be the spell you tried to kill me with."

  "When others saw what you had done, I became a failed witch — tainted. I lost respect. I lost most of my business because of you. Who wants to get magic done by a tainted witch?"

  "I doubt that's the whole problem. Look at yourself. You're a drunken slob. You're falling apart."

  Raising her torso, breathing deep like an animal preparing to battle, she bared her yellow teeth. "You are a demon sent to me by order of Hell. I know how your kind thinks. I know your plans. And I won't be your pawn in any of it. I defy you demon from the North. I defy you. You want to kill me? Fine. I'll take your bitch with me and make you watch."

  Sandra stepped forward and slapped Dr. Connor so hard that the woman fell to the ground. "For a witch, you sure are a fool. You were the killer, not us."

  "Don't bother," Drummond said as he poked around the office. "She's out of her mind. Or just plain drunk."

  "She has a book," Max said. "At least, she had one when I was last here."

  "She's a witch. She has lots of books."

  "This one's all about curses."

  "I'll check on it." Drummond stepped through a wall deeper into the office.

  With a garbled chuckle, the witch raised her head. "You want to know more about curses, eh? You want to know about a specific curse." Her eyes struck upon Max with an intensity unmatched by her slovenly appearance. Her youth returned to her eyes. "And a painting, I think."

  Max's fears resumed their play on his nerves. "What do you know about Jasper Sullivan? How was he cursed?"

  Still chuckling, Connor's eyes slipped away from Max and fell upon the half-empty Jack Daniel's bottle. She crawled over moldy pizza to the bottle and suckled it with wet, slobbering noises. With a relieved smile, she said, "I know all about that man and that painting. You may have ruined me, but I've still got contacts. I still have opportunities. Witches are like cats. Nine lives. You watch yourselves because I know everything you want to know."

  "I'll bet you do. Your mother was the witch in charge back in William Hull's day, right?"

  "Oh, yes. She was dangerous."

  "And William Hull was angry that he had been duped on that painting. So he wanted her to hurt Jasper Sullivan in revenge."

  "You sound like you know it all, but you don't."

  Sandra leaned toward Max. "She's nuts. Let's just go."

  Max squatted in front of Connor. He looked at her expectant face and knew the time for payment had come. She had acknowledged that she knew something and, by sharing this fact, that she would be willing to tell it — but no witch does anything for free.

  "Honey," he said without looking away from the witch. "Go to the ABC store and buy two, make it three, bottles of Jack Daniels." To Dr. Connor, he added, "Will that be enough?"

  Connor swung her bottle upward and guzzled the r
emaining alcohol. "It just might."

  She refused to say another word until Sandra returned. Drummond flew in, listened to what had happened, and said to Max, "You keep impressing me. If this were back in my time, we would've made a great team."

  "We're barely partners."

  "If I were alive, I'd make us a team, but I guess we do okay. I found the book back there. It's in pretty bad condition. Her private office is every bit as messed up as the rest of this place and keeping care of her books doesn't seem to have gotten any priority. Looks like she's been living back there for some time now."

  "I'll look at it later. I don't want to leave her alone for any length of time."

  Dr. Connor pointed at Max with a curved index finger that wavered in little arcs as she said, "Smart man. I still can do amazing things if I want to. Just takes a little focus and then that's it for you." She gazed in the vicinity of Drummond. "I know you're there, ghost. I feel you. I can still hurt you, too. Don't even think about touching me with your cold hands. I'll bind you back before you know I've even moved."

  Drummond yawned. "Your wife better get back quick. I'm already tired of drunken witch-rantings."

  Twenty minutes more passed before Sandra arrived with the whiskey. She handed the bottles to Max, gave the witch a vile glare, and stepped back near Drummond. Max handed one bottle over to Dr. Connor who broke open the seal with practiced efficiency and drank.

  "Now," Max said, "if you want the rest of them, you'd better start talking. Why was Jasper Sullivan cursed, what kind of curse, and how do we break it?"

  "Don't forget the painting," Drummond said.

  Max motioned for patience. Connor flashed her best insanity glower, and said, "You've got the whole thing wrong. Jasper Sullivan was never cursed. Executed, yes, but not cursed. After all, William Hull was not a bad man, not an unfair man. He understood why somebody like Sullivan would do what he did. This was the Great Depression. Times were hard and everybody needed money."

  "Except Hull," Sandra said under her breath.

  "Even the Hull family fell hard," Connor said, turning toward Sandra. "When the market goes bad, it goes bad for anybody with money. Now it's true that the Hulls did not suffer like a Sullivan or a Smith or even the Connor family — but they did have to go without many of the things they had become accustomed to." To Max, she continued, "William Hull would never order Jasper Sullivan to be cursed. But when they decided, in those uncertain times, to spend their money on a painting and then discovered they had lost their money and the painting both, well, Hull's anger could not be matched. Those responsible would have to pay. So, Jasper Sullivan ended up dead. Howard Corkille, however, became another matter entirely."